


Mad Barricade: Fury Road

by big_iron



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Immortan Bonecrusher, Imperator Chromia, Mad Barricade, Mad Max AU, do I need to say anything else?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/big_iron/pseuds/big_iron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a dead world, Energon is the most important thing. Or is it? Follow "Mad" Barricade, last of the Interceptors, as he is swept into a battle between Imperator Chromia and Immortan Bonecrusher over the fate of the Immortan's prize breeders, the Camien Wives. Mad Max!Transformers AU. Loosely based on elements of Prime, FoC and IDW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Barricade: Fury Road

**Author's Note:**

> This idea took hold of me a week or so ago and I haven't been able to shake it yet. On paper, it seems like a good enough idea, but it started to spiral out of control and now I'm putting it on all down on paper to get it straight. Suffice to say, this will follow the events of Fury Road with more or less similarity, and the pre-war canon I'm basing on is a vague mix of Prime, FOC and IDW elements. So basically, a beast of my own making. If you've stuck through this opening with me, then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

_My name is Barricade. My world is fire and death. Before the big flash, ordinary mechs were called to service in two great armies, in a battle that leeched the life from our planet. Now, the world is poison. Our sparks are half-life. And as the world fell, each of us, in our own way, was broken._

_In the roar of an engine, I lost everything. I let them die. Became a shell of a mech. Haunted, pursued by both the living and the dead, half-life and half-dead. But it was here, in this blighted place, that I learned to live again._

* * *

 

_Where are you?_

The voices were starting again. Quiet whispers, festering in the back of his processor like an unseen infection. Silently, Barricade's faceplates crumpled into a frown. It would not stay this way forever. The voices would become faces. Visions, seeping into his optics from the black matter of his brain. He had worms in his brain.

Something shuffled at his feet. Petro-rabbit. No doubt, as lean and thirsty as he was. The impetuous creature nibbled at his pedes, looking for a fuel line to puncture, to replenish its own faltering sustenance.

Barricade's reaction was swift and calculated. With a low grunt, he brought his pede down upon the animal's skull casing. It crumpled without resistance beneath the force of the kick, the life fading from its body with only a small squeak to mark its passing.

In a moment, the ex-Con was upon it. His wiry digits tightened around the nape of its necks-- two-headed, of course it was-- and brought it to his own hungry, gaping maw. Between his denta, it crunched softly. Energon seeped from its broken lines, and he savored the precious juice, drinking as deeply as the petro-rabbit's meager body had to offer.

He stopped chewing.

There, out west, the unmistakeable roar of an engine-- engines-- caught his attention.

_Time to go._

He did not need the voice in his head to tell him twice. Without a word, Barricade transformed, speeding toward the horizon. In moments, they were upon him.

Road warriors. Judging by their vaguely uniform appearance, of white paint with black lines of grease, they were the agents of some as-of-yet unseen warlord. Primus knew how many of them there were, violent souls who had taken control of those around them in the absence of Megatron and the Prime. They shouted to each other as they approached their quarry. Bikes and buggies swerved around him, each of them trying to gain ground on the jet-black interceptor.

His engine roared back to theirs, a challenge spoken in the most primal of ways. _Come get me,_ he said.

A moment later, something exploded beneath his back tire. He felt his frame leave the pitted and cratered ground, saw it rushing back up to meet him, and then there was only blackness.

* * *

 

It was hard to tell where they had taken him. The pitch darkness, with no hint of Cybertron's brightly-glowing moon-- or what was left of it, anyway-- meant that he was in a heavily fortified and repaired structure. He didn't feel underground, at least. If anything, the lightness of the thin atmosphere meant that he was high up.

The place smelled like oil and grease. The sound of sparks sizzling against the grated floor filled his audio receptors, momentarily-- and blissfully-- drowning out the voices. Two mechs were holding him down on the floor of the chop shop, going over him with a laser-brand. On his back, Barricade couldn't see what they were writing, of course-- but he could feel it. Every inch of the laser branding was alive with pain, a blinking node on his sensory processing.

**R O A D W A R R I O R F O U N D I N D A B A R R E N L A N D S**

**U N I V E R S A L D O N O R**

**H I G H O C T A N E C R A Z E E 'G O N**

**F E R A L**

Well, they weren't wrong about that. The reality of the situation finally set in as one of the warbots approached him with another glowing brand. A rough circle, a helm on fire suspended in the middle. They weren't going to kill him. They were going to keep him alive, for as long as they could. Farm and harvest all the Energon he could offer until his spark finally gave out.

Knowing Barricade, that would not be for a very long time.

In a moment, his course of action was decided. With a burst of newfound strength, he bucked widly. The warbots momentarily lost their grip upon him, and he wrenched free, sprinting down the narrow hallway that led out of the room.

Other rooms blurred past the corners of his vision as he charged down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear the stampede of angry pedes as the warbots pursued him. They shouted warnings to their brothers, trying to rouse them from their respective tasks to head off the wild ex-'Con. One such brave soul stepped out in front of Barricade, servos reaching out to take hold of his frame. He was rewarded for his bravery as Barricade leaned in to clamp his rusted and chipped denta on a fuel line in the warbot's neck.

A moment later, the warbot was left behind, gurgling and clutching his neck as precious Energon leaked out upon the floor. The rest of the pursuing warbots slipped in the puddle of juice, allowing Barricade to put some distance between himself and his pursuers. Up ahead, a pair of bent and beaten double doors all but called out to him. The pale light of Cybertron's moons crept out from beneath the doors. The bright lure of freedom was irresistible to Barricade, and he felt his half-life spark hitch in his chestplate as he barreled through the doors.

A vision flashed before his optics. A toothy smile and wide, blue optics. _Barricade? Is that you?_

He stumbled to a stop, and it saved him. The ex-'Con stood at the edge of a massive precipice. Even many cycles later, he could recognize the towering spires of Fortress Sinister all around him. After all, he had been part of the Decepticon assault to initially sieze the Energon harvesting plant from the Autobots.

Another memory. Another life.

For now, he had to focus on _this_ life. The warbots were on their feet again, closing in on him with a newfound ferocity after Barricade had claimed the life of one of their brothers. Desperately, the mech searched for a way out. Suspended between the spires, countless lines and conveyor platforms ferried cargo to and fro. One such platform-- little more than a thin plate suspended from a hook-- was getting _enticingly_ close.

There was no other option. With a snarl of effort, Barricade put all of his power into one massive leap, the digits on his servos splayed outwards to gain whatever purchase he could find on the meager platform. One servo brushed against the plate, and he clamped onto it with all of his might. Momentum swung him forward, and his spark sank as he realized the inevitability of physics.

He swung back, into the waiting, outstretched arms of the warbots. Their dirty, grubby servos took hold of him, wrenched him from his one hope of escape, and returned him to the darkness from whence he came.

* * *

As Chromia approached the war rig, she couldn't help but smile.

The mobile Energon refinery and hauler had seen so much combat and repair, it was nearly incomparable to the vehicle it had been before the war. _Just like me,_ the femme thought. They were both lean machines, powerful and _eternal true_ to the purpose they had in life. Broken, beaten, and fixed so many times over, she couldn't even remember them all.

She shook the dust from her pedes as she clambered up the side of the massive rig's engine. High above her, the tanker she was hauling descended on a massive platform. With Energon at such a premium, the lift was powered by nothing more complicated than the combined efforts of a hundred warbots. These ones were barely more than children, but even now, they were willing to devote every quantum of their effort in service of the Immortan.

Her face scrunched at the thought of him, and her replacement arm itched.

As the tanker descended, one of the lead warbots called out, as was customary: “What are we haulin' _today_ , cra _zee_ warbots?”

_“The good stuff!”_ Was the immediate answer, full of misplaced gusto and pride.

“You're damn right! Got 'Gon for Oiltown...” The warbot continued.

_“'Gon for Oiltown!”_ They called back.

“And milk o' magnesia for Slugfarm!”

_“Milk o' magnesia! Slugfarm!”_

Now that the roster had been declared, it was time for the Immortan to speak. This ritual had been completed so many times, Chromia had all but memorized his speech. Worthless and empty words from a mech whose only talent was hurting and _hating_. The population of Fortress Sinister congregated at the base of the main tower, a veritable horde of slaves all clamoring for one thing. _Energon._

The femme's optics narrowed as the Immortan Bonecrusher came in sight at the peak of the tower. What a disgusting slaghead. His face was a mangled, caved-in mess after a long-ago personal confrontation with the Prime. One that he had _lost_ , as Chromia remembered, but it was better to keep quiet about that sort of thing if you valued your life in Fortress Sinister. His voice boomed without the aid of amplifiers, and all those beneath him maintained a strict silence as he spoke.

“Today, we start again,” He rumbled. “Today, I send my convoy out into the wastes, to trade with Oiltown and Slugfarm. Today, I salute my Imperator, Chromia, who will haul that fat tank of 'Gon on the Fury Road!” This was accompanied by an honest-to-Primus salute from the warlord, one that Chromia returned with only the barest minimum of sincerity.

“Today, I salute my half-life warbots, who will ride _eternal true_ with me through the highways of the Pit!” Bonecrusher continued, gesturing with a sweeping motion toward the warbots stationed on the tanker's gun placements. The warbots solemnly and reverently bowed their heads as they clasped their hands together.

“But remember, my friends,” Bonecrusher urged, “that it is by _my_ will-- and my will _alone_ \-- that you live. By _my_ will that you will be lifted from the ashes of the old world, cy-phoenixes reborn, and made to _fly_ again. Remember this! Remember your _place_. And remember...”

He pointed one fat digit at Chromia, who sat in the driver's seat of the hauler now.

“Protect the fuel!”

Then, the warlord brought his fist down upon the release for the Energon pumps. The pipes far beneath Fortress Sinister groaned and rumbled-- and then, a brilliant, iridiscent waterfall of Energon cascaded from the mouth of the skull etched into the main tower. Immediately, the massive crowd surged forward, containers of all shapes and sizes lifted overhead to gather whatever drops of the precious juice they could find.

It did not last. Bonecrusher cut off the flow, and the crowd descended into chaos as they scrambled to fight over what remained of the fuel.

“But do not become addicted to it, my friends,” Bonecrusher concluded. “Or you will become _dependent_ on fuel, and you will _resent_ its absence.” With that said, the mech turned away from the balcony, returning to the safety and solitude of his tower. No doubt, he would grow needful of the Wives soon. Chromia only had a scant amount of time to set her plan in motion.

A heavy clunk against the back of the rig confirmed that the tanker was now connected. The Imperator reached beneath the dashboard, feeling for the switchboard that would start the vehicle on its unstoppable journey. _One. One, two. Red, black, go!_

The engine roared to life. The steering wheel rumbled and shook beneath her servos, and Chromia allowed herself a moment of respite as she leaned back into her seat. This felt normal. This felt right. In here, with her servos on the steering wheel and her pede on the gas, she felt like she _belonged._

But that moment could not last forever. She had one last job to do, after all. The engine rumbled, and the tanker groaned and sloshed as Chromia made her way out onto the Fury Road. The long stretch of highway that connected the three settlements of Fortress Sinister, Oiltown and Slugfarm was a veritable graveyard for warbots and road warriors. Even now, long after her last supply run, she could still see the rusting corpses of those who had not survived the previous journey. Ahead of her, on the horizon, Oiltown's signaling mirror flickered in the moonlight.

At the halfway point, Chromia sharply pulled the steering wheel to the left. The warbots were startled by the sudden change of course, but the Imperator knew she could depend on them to follow her. For now. Where they were going, Primus knew that she would need their help. One of them, an ancient and battered Vehicon by the name of Steve-- what the _frag_ kind of name was _that_ , anyway-- banged urgently on the sunroof.

To keep up appearances, she opened it.

“Boss! We're headed east!” He exclaimed, as if Chromia was somehow unaware of the sudden turn she had made. “Oiltown is _south!_ ”

The femme eyed him coldly. After a moment, her only explanation was: “We're taking a detour.” To punctuate her statement, she yanked on the rig's klaxxon, a deep honk echoing across the sand dunes.

“... I'll, uh, pass it down the line,” Steve answered. He disappeared to do just that, and the Imperator closed her sunroof, thankful once again for the isolation of the cabin.

It would not last. On the horizon, at the crest of one of the dunes, two buggies-- calamitous edges of sharp edges and rust-- waited for the war rig to draw closer.

_“Guzzoline! Thousands of gallons of it! As much as you want!”_ One of the Junkions all but sobbed in desperation. _“Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk--”_

_“Be still, my dog of war,”_ The other one interrupted. _“We do it my way. The gasoline will be ours.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I did writing it! Next chapter, we get back to Barricade, introduce Blurr, and maybe squeeze in the Camien Wives near the end.


End file.
